Yet while the separate self and the conjunct self lodge in the same being, the degree and kind of attention accorded to the latter marks the stage of moral maturity at which man or nation has arrived. In certain undeveloped forms of social life the conjunctive elements are but slightly emphasized, while the separate self bulks large. With the advance of morality the opposite principle obtains. Wider and more subtle relationships are seen to make our lives our own. Many as are these social varieties, I have thought they might advantageously be examined under three headings, to which I give the rather unintelligible names of Manners, Gifts, and Mutuality. While recognizing that every phase of human life is altruistic in some degree, I hold that there are higher grades which give to the principle a prominence and scope which the lower lack. My general subject, then, might be entitled The Forms and Stages of the Conjunct Self. I begin where the conjunctive principle appears in its narrowest range and advance into the broader altruism only as I am logically compelled to do so. Endeavoring to see how small a section of human conduct need be affected by altruism, I am ultimately forced to make it as extensive as life itself.
Maintaining, however, as I do, that the two contrasted elements always are and should be mutually serviceable, I naturally have nothing to say in condemnation of self-seeking. On the contrary, I hold it to be praiseworthy. Rightly does Aristotle assert that the good man is always a lover of himself. But of which self is Aristotle thinking, the conjunct or the separate? Much of the mystery surrounding the notion of altruism is due to confusion on this point. For example, when a man is charged with selfishness it is usually because he is thought to have obtained some advantage. But why should he not? He is blamable only when he detaches the thought of his own advantage from advantage to others. My good must not be had at another’s expense. When a plate of apples is passed and I pick out the best one, the wrong is not in my obtaining a good apple but in my depriving somebody else of one. That is selfishness. Whenever my gain is not inconsistent with his or, as is usually the case, actually contributes to it, the larger the gain made by me the better.
CHAPTER II
MANNERS
Where, then, does altruism appear in its simplest form? Whenever one of us comes into the presence of another there occurs a subtle change of personal attitude to which I give the name of Manners. We do not act or speak precisely as if alone. In all our bearing there is a marked adjustment of one personality to another. I take on the color of him before whom I stand. I feel his psychological conditions and square myself accordingly. That is, I at once perceive that he and I are not quite independent. An acknowledgment of a certain community between us must be established before either of us can be at ease. Such acknowledgment may have a wide or narrow scope, but it will always imply regard for another for his own sake and not merely regard for my sake.
One would expect that the words which name a relation so normal and dignified would be words suggestive of honor. Strangely enough, they are all depreciatory. I have sought for a word to describe the consideration of man by man which would be colorless, that neither praised nor blamed, but simply fixed attention on the fact. No such word do I find. A blot of disparagement is on them all. I choose Manners as on the whole the least objectionable.
Pass them briefly in review. When I say a man is kind in Manners, do I not suggest that there may be a contrast between his outward bearing and his inner heart? Or shall we call the relation one of Propriety, as Adam Smith does in his masterly discussion of this moral situation? Propriety always stirs aversion, because it implies that we have had little share in establishing the standard employed. It has been set up outside us and still we are subjected to it. How exasperated a child is when told to behave properly! Why should he care for Propriety? Or shall we say Civility? It is a scrimping, meagre word, announcing that only so much consideration is shown as decency requires. When we hear a man say, “John was civil to me,” our thought continues: “Was that all? Did he go no further than that?” How would Politeness do? More than Manners it hints at insincerity and conduct that hopes to gain something for itself. Beware of a polite man. He is likely to use you for his own ends. Might we then talk of Good Breeding? When any one calls me well-bred he praises my parents, not me. The excellence on which I pride myself has apparently come from their training. What shall we say of Courtesy? That it is a term of dignity, but suggests stooping. The one with whom I deal is accounted my inferior. Or Gentlemanliness? To call a young fellow a gentleman makes his heart throb. Yet the word does not escape a certain limitation. It uses the standard of a particular set, “our crowd.” If my conduct does not accord with their usages, I am not a gentleman. The word lacks universality.
By such questionable terms our language names the beautiful relation I am now to set forth. Since Manners is on the whole the least stained word among them, the one most nearly neutral, I adopt it, but I shall read into it much more meaning than people generally intend. To cover its full meaning I am obliged to frame a statement so burdened with details that it will hardly be recognized as anything commonly called Manners. But it shall be explained clause by clause, and I ask my reader to watch whether I have introduced anything into it which might be omitted or omitted anything which should have been introduced. The definition runs thus: By Manners I mean such a voluntary conformity to a code of conduct as, within a fixed field of intercourse, insures to each person the least offense and a due opportunity of self-expression. Four elements are here named as belonging to Manners. I will take them up separately and in order.
In the first place Manners assume a settled code, a social arrangement generally agreed to. They are essentially systematic, not impulsive and incidental. An exclamation of joy uttered when I am happy may or may not be consistent with good manners. That depends on how fully it has been rationalized. I am expected to act to-day as I should wish to act to-morrow. Expression must keep in view the whole personality. Moreover, I must know how other people act and bring my action into measurable conformity with theirs. If I am frequently doing what nobody else does, I am sure to be thought rude. I am expected to understand what the social code demands. Perhaps the word “code” is too formal. It pictures a committee drawing up a plan of behavior. Of course no such committee exists. Yet an agreement there has been, a tacit understanding, of how we are to behave to one another. Any one ignorant of this understanding, or neglectful of it, is reckoned boorish and unfit for mannerly intercourse. That usage and not my own liking should direct my bearing toward others. To do something just because I like to shows me uncivilized. My commonest actions should be socialized. They are expected to express something more than my separate self, namely, my conjunct self, showing accordance with myself at other times and also accordance with the persons around me.
Is it well or usual to have these understandings written down? Are manuals of manners useful, teaching us just how to behave in this and that situation? Such books exist, but I believe few would willingly be caught reading one. Formal codes are not what we want. They are not fine enough. They study moral situations too mechanically, with too little regard for personality. From them one might pick up a few useful warnings about certain bad habits not previously noticed; but a man who followed such a manual exactly would nowhere be a welcome guest.